The Poems And Prose Of Ernest Dowson by Ernest Dowson et al

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which separated the outer worshippers from the chapel or gallery which wasset apart for the nuns. His lips moved from time to time spasmodically,in prayer or ejaculation: then as the jubilant organ burst out, and theofficiating priest in his dalmatic of cloth of gold passed from thesacristy and genuflected at the altar, he seemed to be listening in a verypassion of attention. But as the incense began to fill the air, and theLitany of Loreto smote on my ear to some sorrowful, undulating Gregorian, Ilost thought of the wretched man beside me; I forgot the miserable mistakethat he had perpetuated, and I was once more back in the past--withDelphine--kneeling by her side. Strophe by strophe that perfect litany roseand was lost in a cloud of incense, in the mazy arches of the roof.

'Janua coeli, Stella matutina, Salus infirmorum, Ora pro nobis!'

In strophe and antistrophe: the melancholy, nasal intonation of the priestdied away, and the exquisite women's voices in the gallery took it up withexultation, and yet with something like a sob--a sob of limitation.

And so on through all the exquisite changes of the hymn, until the time ofthe music changed, and the priest intoned the closing line.

'Ora pro nobis, Sancta Dei Genetrix!'

and the voices in the gallery answered:

'Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi.'

There was one voice which rose above all the others, a voice of marvelloussweetness and power, which from the first moment had caused me a curiousthrill. And presently Lorimer bent down and whispered to me: 'So near,' hemurmured, 'and yet so far away--so near, and yet never quite close!'

But before he had spoken I had read in his rigid face, in his eyes fixedwith such a passion of regret on the screen, why we were there--whose voiceit was we had listened to.

I rose and went out of the church quietly and hastily; I felt that to staythere one moment longer would be suffocation.... Poor woman! so this is howshe sought consolation, in religion! Well, there are different ways fordifferent persons--and for me--what is there left for me? Oh, many things,no doubt, many things. Still, for once and for the last time, let me setmyself down as a dreary fraud. I never forgot her, not for one hour or day,not even when it seemed to me that I had forgotten her most, not even whenI married. No woman ever represented to me the same idea as Madame deSavaresse. No woman's voice was ever sweet to me after hers, the touch ofno woman's hand ever made my heart beat one moment quicker for pleasure orfor pain, since I pressed hers for the last time on that fateful eveningtwenty years ago. Even so--!...

When the service was over and the people had streamed out and dispersed, Iwent back for the last time into the quiet church. A white robed serverwas extinguishing the last candle on the altar; only the one red lightperpetually vigilant before the sanctuary, made more visible the deepshadows everywhere.

Lorimer was still kneeling with bowed head in his place. Presently he roseand came towards me. 'She was there--Delphine--you heard her. Ah, Dion, sheloves you, she always loves you, you are avenged.'

I gather that for years he has spent hours daily in this church, to be nearher, and hear her voice, the magnificent voice rising above all the othervoices in the chants of her religion. But he will never see her, for is shenot of the Dames Rouges! And I remember now all the stories of the Order,of its strictness, its austerity, its perfect isolation. And chiefly, Iremember how they say that only twice after one of these nuns has taken hervows is she seen of any one except those of her community; once, when sheenters the Order, the door of the convent is thrown back and she is seenfor a single moment in the scarlet habit of the Order, by the world, by allwho care to gaze; and once more, at the last, when clad in the same coarsered garb, they bear her out quietly, in her coffin, into the church.

And of this last meeting, Lorimer, I gather, is always restlesslyexpectant, his whole life concentrated, as it were, in a very passion ofwaiting for a moment which will surely come. His theory, I confess, escapesme, nor can I guess how far a certain feverish remorse, an intention ofexpiation may be set as a guiding spring in his unhinged mind, and account,at least in part, for the fantastic attitude which he must have adopted formany years. If I cannot forgive him, at least I bear him no malice, andfor the rest, our paths will hardly cross again. One takes up one's lifeand expiates its errors, each after one's several fashion--and my way isnot Lorimer's. And now that it is all so clear, there is nothing to keepme here any longer, nothing to bring me back again. For it seemed to meto-day, strangely enough, as though a certain candle of hope, of promise,of pleasant possibilities, which had flickered with more or less light forso many years, had suddenly gone out and left me alone in utter darkness,as the knowledge was borne in upon me that henceforth Madame de Savaressehad passed altogether and finally out of my life.

And so to-morrow--Brussels!

A CASE OF CONSCIENCE

I

It was in Brittany, and the apples were already acquiring a ruddier,autumnal tint, amid their greens and yellows, though Autumn was not yet;and the country lay very still and fair in the sunset which had befallen,softly and suddenly as is the fashion there. A man and a girl stood lookingdown in silence at the village, Ploumariel, from their post of vantage,half way up the hill: at its lichened church spire, dotted with littlegables, like dove-cotes; at the slated roof of its market; at its quietwhite houses. The man's eyes rested on it complacently, with the enjoymentof the painter, finding it charming: the girl's, a little absently, asone who had seen it very often before. She was pretty and very young, buther gray serious eyes, the poise of her head, with its rebellious brownhair braided plainly, gave her a little air of dignity, of reserve whichsat piquantly upon her youth. In one ungloved hand, that was brown fromthe sun, but very beautiful, she held an old parasol, the other playedoccasionally with a bit of purple heather. Presently she began to speak,using English just coloured by a foreign accent, that made her speechprettier.

'You make me afraid,' she said, turning her large, troubled eyes on hercompanion, 'you make me afraid, of myself chiefly, but a little of you. Yousuggest so much to me that is new, strange, terrible. When you speak, I amtroubled; all my old landmarks appear to vanish; I even hardly know rightfrom wrong. I love you, my God, how I love you! but I want to go away fromyou and pray in the little quiet church, where I made my first Communion.I will come to the world's end with you; but oh, Sebastian, do not ask me,let me go. You will forget me, I am a little girl to you, Sebastian. Youcannot care very much for me.'

The man looked down at her, smiling masterfully, but very kindly. He tookthe mutinous hand, with its little sprig of heather, and held it betweenhis own. He seemed to find her insistence adorable; mentally, he wascontrasting her with all other women whom he had known, frowning at thememory of so many years in which she had no part. He was a man of morethan forty, built large to an uniform English pattern; there was a touchof military erectness in his carriage which often deceived people as tohis vocation. Actually, he had never been anything but artist, though hecame of a family of soldiers, and had once been war correspondent of anillustrated paper. A certain distinction had always adhered to him, nevermore than now when he was no longer young, was growing bald, had streaksof gray in his moustache. His face, without being handsome, possessed acertain charm; it was worn and rather pale, the lines about the firm mouthwere full of lassitude, the eyes rather tired. He had the air of havingtasted widely, curiously, of life in his day, prosperous as he seemednow, that had left its mark upon him. His voice, which usually took anintonation that his friends found supercilious, grew very tender inaddressing this little French girl, with her quaint air of childishdignity.

'Marie-Yvonne, foolish child, I will not hear one word more. You are alittle heretic; and I am sorely tempted to seal your lips from utteringheresy. You tell me that you love me, and you ask me to let you go, inone breath. The impossible conjuncture! Marie-Yvonne,' he added, moreseriously, 'trust yourself to me, my child! You know, I will never give youup. You know that these months that I have been at Ploumariel, are worthall the rest of my life to me. It has been a difficult life, hitherto,little one: change it for me; make it worth while. You would let morbidfancies come between us. You have lived overmuch in that little church,with its worm-eaten benches, and its mildewed odour of dead people, anddead ideas. Take care, Marie-Yvonne: it had made you serious-eyed, beforeyou have learnt to laugh; by and by, it will steal away your youth, beforeyou have ever been young. I come to claim you, Marie-Yvonne, in the name ofLife.' His words were half-jesting; his eyes were profoundly in earnest. Hedrew her to him gently; and when he bent down and kissed her forehead,and then her shy lips, she made no resistance: only, a little tremor ranthrough her. Presently, with equal gentleness, he put her away from him.'You have already given me your answer, Marie-Yvonne. Believe me, you willnever regret it. Let us go down.'

They took their way in silence towards the village; presently a bend of theroad hid them from it, and he drew closer to her, helping her with his armover the rough stones. Emerging, they had gone thirty yards so, before thescent of English tobacco drew their attention to a figure seated by theroad-side, under a hedge; they recognised it, and started apart, a littleconsciously.

'It is M. Tregellan,' said the young girl, flushing: 'and he must have seenus.'

'It makes no matter,' he observed, after a moment: 'I shall see your uncleto-morrow and we know, good man, how he wishes this; and, in any case, Iwould have told Tregellan.'

The figure rose, as they drew near: he shook the ashes out of his briar,and removed it to his pocket. He was a slight man, with an ugly, cleverface; his voice as he greeted them, was very low and pleasant.

'You must have had a charming walk, Mademoiselle. I have seldom seenPloumariel look better.'

'Yes,' she said, gravely, 'it has been very pleasant. But I must not lingernow,' she added breaking a little silence in which none of them seemedquite at ease. 'My uncle will be expecting me to supper.' She held out herhand, in the English fashion, to Tregellan, and then to Sebastian Murch,who gave the little fingers a private pressure.

They had come into the market-place round which most of the houses inPloumariel were grouped. They watched the young girl cross it briskly; sawher blue gown pass out of sight down a bye street: then they turned totheir own hotel. It was a low, white house, belted half way down the frontwith black stone; a pictorial object, as most Breton hostels. The groundfloor was a _cafe_; and, outside it, a bench and long stained tableenticed them to rest. They sat down, and ordered _absinthes_, as the hoursuggested: these were brought to them presently by an old servant of thehouse; an admirable figure, with the white sleeves and apron relieving herlinsey dress: with her good Breton face, and its effective wrinkles. Forsome time they sat in silence, drinking and smoking. The artist appeared tobe absorbed in contemplation of his drink; considering its clouded green invarious lights. After a while the other looked up, and remarked, abruptly.

'I may as well tell you that I happened to overlook you, just now,unintentionally.'

Sebastian Murch held up his glass, with absent eyes.

'Don't mention it, my dear fellow,' he remarked, at last, urbanely.

'I beg your pardon; but I am afraid I must.'

He spoke with an extreme deliberation which suggested nervousness; withthe air of a person reciting a little set speech, learnt imperfectly: andhe looked very straight in front of him, out into the street, at two dogsquarrelling over some offal.

'I daresay you will be angry: I can't avoid that; at least, I have knownyou long enough to hazard it. I have had it on my mind to say something. IfI have been silent, it hasn't been because I have been blind, or approved.I have seen how it was all along. I gathered it from your letters when Iwas in England. Only until this afternoon I did not know how far it hadgone, and now I am sorry I did not speak before.'

He stopped short, as though he expected his friend's subtilty to come tohis assistance; with admissions or recriminations. But the other was stillsilent, absent: his face wore a look of annoyed indifference. After awhile, as Tregellan still halted, he observed quietly:

'You must be a little more explicit. I confess I miss your meaning.'

'Ah, don't be paltry,' cried the other, quickly. 'You know my meaning. Tobe very plain, Sebastian, are you quite justified in playing with thatcharming girl, in compromising her?'

The artist looked up at last, smiling; his expressive mouth was set, notangrily, but with singular determination.

'With Mademoiselle Mitouard?'

'Exactly; with the niece of a man whose guest you have recently been.'

'My dear fellow!' he stopped a little, considering his words: 'Youare hasty and uncharitable for such a very moral person! you jump atconclusions, Tregellan. I don't, you know, admit your right to question me:still, as you have introduced the subject, I may as well satisfy you.I have asked Mademoiselle Mitouard to marry me, and she has consented,subject to her uncle's approval. And that her uncle, who happens to preferthe English method of courtship, is not likely to refuse.'

The other held his cigar between two fingers, a little away; his curiouslyanxious face suggested that the question had become to him one of increasednicety.

'I am sorry,' he said, after a moment; 'this is worse than I imagined; it'simpossible.'

'It is you that are impossible, Tregellan,' said Sebastian Murch. He lookedat him now, quite frankly, absolutely: his eyes had a defiant light inthem, as though he hoped to be criticised; wished nothing better than tostand on his defence, to argue the thing out. And Tregellan sat for a longtime without speaking, appreciating his purpose. It seemed more monstrousthe closer he considered it: natural enough withal, and so, harder todefeat; and yet, he was sure, that defeated it must be. He reflected howaccidental it had all been: their presence there, in Ploumariel, and therest! Touring in Brittany, as they had often done before, in their habit ofold friends, they had fallen upon it by chance, a place unknown of Murray;and the merest chance had held them there. They had slept at the _Liond'Or_, voted it magnificently picturesque, and would have gone away andforgotten it; but the chance of travel had for once defeated them. Hard bythey heard of the little votive chapel of Saint Bernard; at the suggestionof their hostess they set off to visit it. It was built steeply on an edgeof rock, amongst odorous pines overhanging a ravine, at the bottom ofwhich they could discern a brown torrent purling tumidly along. For theconvenience of devotees, iron rings, at short intervals, were driven intothe wall; holding desperately to these, the pious pilgrim, at some peril,might compass the circuit; saying an oraison to Saint Bernard, and some ten_Aves_. Sebastian, who was charmed with the wild beauty of the scene, in acountry ordinarily so placid, had been seized with a fit of emulation: notin any mood of devotion, but for the sake of a wider prospect. Tregellanhad protested: and the Saint, resenting the purely aesthetic motive of thefeat, had seemed to intervene. For, half-way round, growing giddy may be,the artist had made a false step, lost his hold. Tregellan, with a littlecry of horror, saw him disappear amidst crumbling mortar and uprootedferns. It was with a sensible relief, for the fall had the illusion ofgreat depth, that, making his way rapidly down a winding path, he found himlying on a grass terrace, amidst _debris_ twenty feet lower, cursing hisfolly, and holding a lamentably sprained ankle, but for the rest uninjured!Tregellan had made off in haste to Ploumariel in search of assistance; andwithin the hour he had returned with two stalwart Bretons and M. le DocteurMitouard.

Their tour had been, naturally, drawing to its close. Tregellan indeed hadan imperative need to be in London within the week. It seemed, therefore, aclear dispensation of Providence, that the amiable doctor should prove anhospitable person, and one inspiring confidence no less. Caring greatly forthings foreign, and with an especial passion for England, a country whencehis brother had brought back a wife; M. le Docteur Mitouard insisted thatthe invalid could be cared for properly at his house alone. And there, inspite of protestations, earnest from Sebastian, from Tregellan halfhearted,he was installed. And there, two days later, Tregellan left him with aneasy mind; bearing away with him, half enviously, the recollection of theyoung, charming face of a girl, the Doctor's niece, as he had seen herstanding by his friend's sofa when he paid his _adieux_; in the beginningsof an intimacy, in which, as he foresaw, the petulance of the invalid, hisimpatience at an enforced detention, might be considerably forgot. And allthat had been two months ago.

II

'I am sorry you don't see it,' continued Tregellan, after a pause, 'to meit seems impossible; considering your history it takes me by surprise.'

The other frowned slightly; finding this persistence perhaps a triflecrude, he remarked good-humouredly enough:

'Will you be good enough to explain your opposition? Do you object to thegirl? You have been back a week now, during which you have seen almost asmuch of her as I.'

'She is a child, to begin with; there is five-and-twenty years' disparitybetween you. But it's the relation I object to, not the girl. Do you intendto live in Ploumariel?'

Sebastian smiled, with a suggestion of irony.

'Not precisely; I think it would interfere a little with my career; why doyou ask?'

'I imagined not; you will go back to London with your little Breton wife,who is as charming here as the apple-blossom in her own garden. You willintroduce her to your circle, who will receive her with open arms; all theclever bores, who write, and talk, and paint, and are talked about betweenBloomsbury and Kensington. Everybody who is emancipated will know her, andeverybody who has a "fad"; and they will come in a body and emancipate her,and teach her their "fads."'

'That is a caricature of my circle, as you call it, Tregellan! though I mayremind you it is also yours. I think she is being starved in this corner,spiritually. She has a beautiful soul, and it has had no chance. I proposeto give it one, and I am not afraid of the result.'

Tregellan threw away the stump of his cigar into the darkling street, witha little gesture of discouragement, of lassitude.

'She has had the chance to become what she is, a perfect thing.'

'My dear fellow,' exclaimed his friend, 'I could not have said moremyself.'

The other continued, ignoring his interruption.

'She has had great luck. She has been brought up by an old eccentric, onthe English system of growing up as she liked. And no harm has come of it,at least until it gave you the occasion of making love to her.'

'You are candid, Tregellan!'

'Let her go, Sebastian, let her go,' he continued, with increasing gravity.'Consider what a transplantation; from this world of Ploumariel whereeverything is fixed for her by that venerable old _Cure_, where life isso easy, so ordered, to yours, ours; a world without definitions, whereeverything is an open question.'

'Exactly,' said the artist, 'why should she be so limited? I would give herscope, ideas. I can't see that I am wrong.'

'She will not accept them, your ideas. They will trouble her, terrify her;in the end, divide you. It is not an elastic nature. I have watched it.'

'At least, allow me to know her,' put in the artist, a little grimly.

Tregellan shook his head.

'The Breton blood; her English mother: passionate Catholicism! a touch ofPuritan! Have you quite made up your mind, Sebastian?'

'I made it up long ago, Tregellan!'

The other looked at him, curiously, compassionately; with a touch ofresentment at what he found his lack of subtilty. Then he said at last:

'I called it impossible; you force me to be very explicit, even cruel. Imust remind you, that you are, of all my friends, the one I value most,could least afford to lose.'

'You must be going to say something extremely disagreeable! somethinghorrible,' said the artist, slowly.

'I am,' said Tregellan, 'but I must say it. Have you explained toMademoiselle, or her uncle, your--your peculiar position?'

Sebastian was silent for a moment, frowning: the lines about his mouth grewa little sterner; at last he said coldly:

'If I were to answer, Yes?'

'Then I should understand that there was no further question of yourmarriage.'

Presently the other commenced in a hard, leaden voice.

'No, I have not told Marie-Yvonne that. I shall not tell her. I havesuffered enough for a youthful folly; an act of mad generosity. I refuseto allow an infamous woman to wreck my future life as she has disgraced mypast. Legally, she has passed out of it; morally, legally, she is not mywife. For all I know she may be actually dead.'

The other was watching his face, very gray and old now, with an anxiouscompassion.

'You know she is not dead, Sebastian,' he said simply. Then he added veryquietly as one breaks supreme bad tidings, 'I must tell you somethingwhich I fear you have not realised. The Catholic Church does not recognisedivorce. If she marry you and find out, rightly or wrongly, she willbelieve that she has been living in sin; some day she will find it out.No damnable secret like that keeps itself for ever: an old newspaper, achance remark from one of your dear friends, and the deluge. Do you see thetragedy, the misery of it? By God, Sebastian, to save you both somebodyshall tell her; and if it be not you, it must be I.'

There was extremest peace in the quiet square; the houses seemed sleepyat last, after a day of exhausting tranquillity, and the chestnuts, underwhich a few children, with tangled hair and fair dirty faces, still played.The last glow of the sun fell on the gray roofs opposite; dying hardit seemed over the street in which the Mitouards lived; and they heardsuddenly the tinkle of an _Angelus_ bell. Very placid! the place and thefew peasants in their pictorial hats and caps who lingered. Only the twoEnglishmen sitting, their glasses empty, and their smoking over, lookingout on it all with their anxious faces, brought in a contrasting note ofmodern life; of the complex aching life of cities, with its troubles andits difficulties.

'Is that your final word, Tregellan?' asked the artist at last, a littlewearily.

'It must be, Sebastian! Believe me, I am infinitely sorry.'

'Yes, of course,' he answered quickly, acidly; 'well, I will sleep on it.'

III

They made their first breakfast in an almost total silence; both wore thebruised harassed air which tells of a night passed without benefit ofsleep. Immediately afterwards Murch went out alone: Tregellan could guessthe direction of his visit, but not its object; he wondered if the artistwas making his difficult confession. Presently they brought him in apencilled note; he recognised, with some surprise, his friend's tortuoushand.

'I have considered our conversation, and your unjustifiable interference.I am entirely in your hands: at the mercy of your extraordinary notions ofduty. Tell her what you will, if you must; and pave the way to your ownsuccess. I shall say nothing; but I swear you love the girl yourself; andare no right arbiter here. Sebastian Murch.'

He read the note through twice before he grasped its purport; then satholding it in lax fingers, his face grown singularly gray.

'It's not true, it's not true,' he cried aloud, but a moment later knewhimself for a self-deceiver all along. Never had self-consciousness beenmore sudden, unexpected, or complete. There was no more to do or say; thisknowledge tied his hands. _Ite! missa est!_...

He spent an hour painfully invoking casuistry, tossed to and froirresolutely, but never for a moment disputing that plain fact whichSebastian had so brutally illuminated. Yes! he loved her, had loved her allalong. Marie-Yvonne! how the name expressed her! at once sweet and serious,arch and sad as her nature. The little Breton wild flower! how cruel itseemed to gather her! And he could do no more; Sebastian had tied hishands. Things must be! He was a man nicely conscientious, and now all theelaborate devices of his honour, which had persuaded him to a disagreeableinterference, were contraposed against him. This suspicion of an ulteriormotive had altered it, and so at last he was left to decide with a sigh,that because he loved these two so well, he must let them go their own wayto misery.

Coming in later in the day, Sebastian Murch found his friend packing.

'I have come to get your answer,' he said; 'I have been walking about thehills like a madman for hours. I have not been near her; I am afraid. Tellme what you mean to do?'

Tregellan rose, shrugged his shoulders, pointed to his valise.

'God help you both! I would have saved you if you had let me. The Quimperle_Courrier_ passes in half-an-hour. I am going by it. I shall catch a nighttrain to Paris.'

As Sebastian said nothing; continued to regard him with the same dull,anxious gaze, he went on after a moment:

'You did me a grave injustice; you should have known me better than that.God knows I meant nothing shameful, only the best; the least misery for youand her.'

'It was true then?' said Sebastian, curiously. His voice was very cold;Tregellan found him altered. He regarded the thing as it had been veryremote, and outside them both.

'I did not know it then,' said Tregellan, shortly.

He knelt down again and resumed his packing. Sebastian, leaning againstthe bed, watched him with absent intensity, which was yet alive to trivialthings, and he handed him from time to time a book, a brush, which theother packed mechanically with elaborate care. There was no more to say,and presently, when the chambermaid entered for his luggage, they went downand out into the splendid sunshine, silently. They had to cross the Squareto reach the carriage, a dusty ancient vehicle, hooded, with places forfour, which waited outside the postoffice. A man in a blue blouse precededthem, carrying Tregellan's things. From the corner they could look downthe road to Quimperle, and their eyes both sought the white house ofDoctor Mitouard, standing back a little in its trim garden, with its oneincongruous apple tree; but there was no one visible.

Presently, Sebastian asked, suddenly:

'Is it true, that you said last night: divorce to a Catholic--?'

Tregellan interrupted him.

'It is absolutely true, my poor friend.'

He had climbed into his place at the back, settled himself on the shinyleather cushion: he appeared to be the only passenger. Sebastian stoodlooking drearily in at the window, the glass of which had long perished.

'I wish I had never known, Tregellan! How could I ever tell her!'

Inside, Tregellan shrugged his shoulders: not impatiently, or angrily, butin sheer impotence; as one who gave it up.

'I can't help you,' he said, 'you must arrange it with your ownconscience.'

'Ah, it's too difficult!' cried the other: 'I can't find my way.'

The driver cracked his whip, suggestively; Sebastian drew back a littlefurther from the off wheel.

'Well,' said the other, 'if you find it, write and tell me. I am verysorry, Sebastian.'

'Good-bye,' he replied. 'Yes! I will write.'

The carriage lumbered off, with a lurch to the right, as it turned thecorner; it rattled down the hill, raising a cloud of white dust. As itpassed the Mitouards' house, a young girl, in a large straw hat, came downthe garden, too late to discover whom it contained. She watched it out ofsight, indifferently, leaning on the little iron gate; then she turned, torecognize the long stooping figure of Sebastian Murch, who advanced to meether.

AN ORCHESTRAL VIOLIN

I

At my dining-place in old Soho--I call it mine because there was a timewhen I became somewhat inveterate there, keeping my napkin (changed once aweek) in a ring recognisable by myself and the waiter, my bottle of Beaune(replenished more frequently), and my accustomed seat--at this restaurantof mine, with its confusion of tongues, its various, foreign _clientele_,amid all the coming and going, the nightly change of faces, there were somewhich remained the same, persons with whom, though one might never havespoken, one had nevertheless from the mere continuity of juxtaposition acertain sense of intimacy.

There was one old gentleman in particular, as inveterate as myself, whoespecially aroused my interest. A courteous, punctual, mild old man with anair which deprecated notice; who conversed each evening for a minute or twowith the proprietor, as he rolled, always at the same hour, a valedictorycigarette, in a language that arrested my ear by its strangeness; and whichproved to be his own, Hungarian; who addressed a brief remark to me attimes, half apologetically, in the precisest of English. We sat next eachother at the same table, came and went at much the same hour; and for along while our intercourse was restricted to formal courtesies; mutualinquiries after each other's health, a few urbane strictures on theclimate. The little old gentleman in spite of his aspect of shabbygentility,--for his coat was sadly inefficient, and the nap of hiscarefully brushed hat did not indicate prosperity--perhaps even because ofthis suggestion of fallen fortunes, bore himself with pathetic erectness,almost haughtily. He did not seem amenable to advances. It was a long timebefore I knew him well enough to value rightly this appearance, the timiddefences, behind which a very shy and delicate nature took refuge from theworld's coarse curiosity. I can smile now, with a certain sadness, when Iremind myself that at one time I was somewhat in awe of M. Maurice Cristichand his little air of proud humility. Now that his place in that dim,foreign eating-house knows him no more, and his yellow napkin-ring, withits distinguishing number, has been passed on to some other customer; Ihave it in my mind to set down my impressions of him, the short historyof our acquaintance. It began with an exchange of cards; a form to whichhe evidently attached a ceremonial value, for after that piece of ritualhis manner underwent a sensible softening, and he showed by many subtileindefinable shades in his courteous address, that he did me the honour ofincluding me in his friendship. I have his card before me now; a large,oblong piece of pasteboard, with _M. Maurice Cristich, Theatre Royal_,inscribed upon it, amid many florid flourishes. It enabled me to form myfirst definite notion of his calling, upon which I had previously wastedmuch conjecture; though I had all along, and rightly as it appeared,associated him in some manner with music.

In time he was good enough to inform me further. He was a musician, aviolinist; and formerly, and in his own country, he had been a composer.But whether for some lack in him of original talent, or of patience,whether for some grossness in the public taste, on which the nervousdelicacy and refinement of his execution was lost, he had not continued. Hehad been driven by poverty to London, had given lessons, and then for manyyears had played a second violin in the orchestra of the Opera.

'It is not much, Monsieur!' he observed, deprecatingly, smoothing hishat with the cuff of his frayed coat-sleeve. 'But it is sufficient; andI prefer it to teaching. In effect, they are very charming, the seraphicyoung girls of your country! But they seem to care little for music; and Iam a difficult master, and have not enough patience. Once, you see, a longtime ago, I had a perfect pupil, and perhaps that spoilt me. Yes! I preferthe theatre, though it is less profitable. It is not as it once was,' headded, with a half sigh; 'I am no longer ambitious. Yes, Monsieur, when Iwas young, I was ambitious. I wrote a symphony and several concertos. Ieven brought out at Vienna an opera, which I thought would make me famous;but the good folk of Vienna did not appreciate me, and they would have noneof my music. They said it was antiquated, my opera, and absurd; and yet, itseemed to me good. I think that Gluck, that great genius, would have likedit; and that is what I should have wished. Ah! how long ago it seems, thattime when I was ambitious! But you must excuse me, Monsieur! your goodcompany makes me garrulous. I must be at the theatre. If I am not in myplace at the half-hour, they fine me two shillings and sixpence, and that Ican ill afford, you know, Monsieur!'

In spite of his defeats, his long and ineffectual struggle with adversity,M. Cristich, I discovered, as our acquaintance ripened, had none of thespleen and little of the vanity of the unsuccessful artist. He seemedin his forlorn old age to have accepted his discomfiture with touchingresignation, having acquired neither cynicism nor indifference. He wassimply an innocent old man, in love with his violin and with his art, whohad acquiesced in disappointment; and it was impossible to decide, whetherhe even believed in his talent, or had not silently accredited the verdictof musical Vienna, which had condemned his opera in those days when he wasambitious. The precariousness of the London Opera was the one fact whichI ever knew to excite him to expressions of personal resentment. Whenits doors were closed, his hard poverty (it was the only occasion whenhe protested against it), drove him, with his dear instrument and hisaccomplished fingers, into the orchestras of lighter houses, where he wascompelled to play music which he despised. He grew silent and rueful duringthese periods of irksome servitude, rolled innumerable cigarettes, whichhe smoked with fierceness and great rapidity. When dinner was done, he wasoften volubly indignant, in Hungarian, to the proprietor. But with thebeginning of the season his mood lightened. He bore himself more sprucely,and would leave me, to assist at a representation of _Don Giovanni_, or_Tannhauser_, with a face which was almost radiant. I had known him a yearbefore it struck me that I should like to see him in his professionalcapacity. I told him of my desire a little diffidently, not knowing howmy purpose might strike him. He responded graciously, but with an air ofintrigue, laying a gentle hand upon my coat sleeve and bidding me wait. Aday or two later, as we sat over our coffee, M. Cristich with an hesitatingurbanity offered me an order.

'If you would do me the honour to accept it, Monsieur! It is a stall, and agood one! I have never asked for one before, all these years, so they gaveit to me easily. You see, I have few friends. It is for to-morrow, as youobserve, I demanded it especially; it is an occasion of great interest tome,--ah! an occasion! You will come?'

'You are too good, M. Cristich!' I said with genuine gratitude, for indeedthe gift came in season, the opera being at that time a luxury I couldseldom command. 'Need I say that I shall be delighted? And to hear MadameRomanoff, a chance one has so seldom!'

The old gentleman's mild, dull eyes glistened. 'Madame Romanoff!' herepeated, 'the marvellous Leonora! yes, yes! She has sung only once beforein London. Ah, when I remember--' He broke off suddenly. As he rose, andprepared for departure, he held my hand a little longer than usual, givingit a more intimate pressure.

'My dear young friend, will you think me a presumptuous old man, if I askyou to come and see me to-morrow in my apartment, when it is over? I willgive you a glass of whisky, and we will smoke pipes, and you shall tellme your impressions--and then I will tell you why to-morrow I shall be soproud, why I show this emotion.'

II

The Opera was _Fidelio_, that stately, splendid work, whose melody, if onemay make a pictorial comparison, has something of that rich and sun-warmcolour which, certainly, on the canvasses of Rubens, affects one as analmost musical quality. It offered brilliant opportunities, and theincomparable singer had wasted none of them. So that when, at last, Ipushed my way out of the crowded house and joined M. Cristich at thestage door, where he waited with eyes full of expectancy, the music stilllingered about me, like the faint, past fragrance of incense, and I had noneed to speak my thanks. He rested a light hand on my arm, and we walkedtowards his lodging silently; the musician carrying his instrument in itssombre case, and shivering from time to time, a tribute to the keen springnight. He stooped as he walked, his eyes trailing the ground; and a certainlistlessness in his manner struck me a little strangely, as though he camefresh from some solemn or hieratic experience, of which the reaction hadalready begun to set in tediously, leaving him at the last unstrung andjaded, a little weary, of himself and the too strenuous occasion. It wasnot until we had crossed the threshold of a dingy, high house in a byway ofBloomsbury, and he had ushered me, with apologies, into his shabby room,near the sky, that the sense of his hospitable duties seemed to renovatehim. He produced tumblers from an obscure recess behind his bed; set akettle on the fire, a lodging-house fire, which scarcely smouldered withflickers of depressing, sulphurous flame, talking of indifferent subjects,as he watched for it to boil.

Only when we had settled ourselves, in uneasy chairs, opposite each other,and he had composed me, what he termed 'a grog': himself preferring themore innocent mixture known as _eau sucree_, did he allude to _Fidelio_.I praised heartily the discipline of the orchestra, the prima donna,whom report made his country-woman, with her strong, sweet voice and herextraordinary beauty, the magnificence of the music, the fine impression ofthe whole.

M. Cristich, his glass in hand, nodded approval. He looked intently intothe fire, which cast mocking shadows over his quaint, incongruous figure,his antiquated dress coat, which seemed to skimp him, his frost-bittencountenance, his cropped grey hair. 'Yes,' he said, 'Yes! So it pleasedyou, and you thought her beautiful? I am glad.'

He turned round to me abruptly, and laid a thin hand impressively on myknee.

'You know I invented her, the Romanoff, discovered her, taught her allshe learnt. Yes, Monsieur, I was proud to-night, very proud, to be there,playing for her, though she did not know. Ah! the beautiful creature!...and how badly I played! execrably! You could not notice that, Monsieur,but they did, my confreres, and could not understand. How should they? Howshould they dream, that I, Maurice Cristich, second violin in the orchestraof the opera, had to do with the Leonora; even I! Her voice thrilled them;ah, but it was I who taught her her notes! They praised her diamonds; yes,but once I gave her that she wanted more than diamonds, bread, and lodgingand love. Beautiful they called her; she was beautiful too, when I carriedher in my arms through Vienna. I am an old man now, and good for verylittle; and there have been days, God forgive me! when I have been angrywith her; but it was not to-night. To see her there, so beautiful and sogreat; and to feel that after all I had a hand in it, that I invented her.Yes, yes! I had my victory to-night too; though it was so private; a secretbetween you and me, Monsieur? Is it not?'

I assured him of my discretion, but he hardly seemed to hear. His sad eyeshad wandered away to the live coals, and he considered them pensively, asthough he found them full of charming memories. I sat back, respectinghis remoteness; but my silence was replete with surprised conjecture, andindeed the quaint figure of the old musician, every line of his garmentsredolent of ill success, had become to me, of a sudden, strangely romantic.Destiny, so amorous of surprises, of pathetic or cynical contrasts, had inthis instance excelled herself. My obscure acquaintance, Maurice Cristich!The renowned Romanoff! Her name and acknowledged genius had been oftenin men's mouths of late, a certain luminous, scarcely sacred, glamourattaching to it, in an hundred idle stories, due perhaps as much to thewonder of her sorrowful beauty, as to any justification in knowledge,of her boundless extravagance, her magnificent fantasies, her variousperversity, rumour pointing specially at those priceless diamonds, thefavours not altogether gratuitous it was said of exalted personages. Andwith all deductions made, for malice, for the ingenuity of the curious,the impression of her perversity was left; she remained enigmatical andnotorious, a somewhat scandalous heroine! And Cristich had known her; hehad, as he declared, and his accent was not that of bragadoccio, inventedher. The conjuncture puzzled and fascinated me. It did not make Cristichless interesting, nor the prima-donna more perspicuous.

By-and-by the violinist looked up at me; he smiled with a little dazed air,as though his thoughts had been a far journey.

'Pardon me, Monsieur! I beg you to fill your glass. I seem a poor host; butto tell you the truth, I was dreaming; I was quite away, quite away.'

He threw out his hands, with a vague expansive gesture.

'Dear child!' he said to the flames, in French; 'good little one! I do notforget thee.' And he began to tell me.

'It was when I was at Vienna, ah! a long while ago. I was not rich, butneither was I very poor; I still had my little patrimony, and I lived inthe ---- Strasse, very economically; it is a quarter which many artistsfrequent. I husbanded my resources, that I might be able to work away at myart without the tedium of making it a means of livelihood. I refused manyoffers to play in public, that I might have more leisure. I should not dothat now; but then, I was very confident; I had great faith in me. AndI worked very hard at my symphony, and I was full of desire to write anopera. It was a tall dark house, where I lived; there were many otherlodgers, but I knew scarcely any of them. I went about with my head fullof music and I had my violin; I had no time to seek acquaintance. Onlymy neighbour, at the other side of my passage, I knew slightly and bowedto him when we met on the stairs. He was a dark, lean man, of a verydistinguished air; he must have lived very hard, he had death in hisface. He was not an artist, like the rest of us: I suspect he was a greatprofligate, and a gambler; but he had the manners of a gentleman. And whenI came to talk to him, he displayed the greatest knowledge of music thatI have ever known. And it was the same with all; he talked divinely, ofeverything in the world, but very wildly and bitterly. He seemed to havebeen everywhere, and done everything; and at last to be tired of it all;and of himself the most. From the people of the house I heard that he was aPole; noble, and very poor; and, what surprised me, that he had a daughterwith him, a little girl. I used to pity this child, who must have livedquite alone. For the Count was always out, and the child never appearedwith him; and, for the rest, with his black spleen and tempers, he musthave been but sorry company for a little girl. I wished much to see her,for you see, Monsieur! I am fond of children, almost as much as of music;and one day it came about. I was at home with my violin; I had been playingall the evening some songs I had made; and once or twice I had seemed to beinterrupted by little, tedious sounds. At last I stopped, and opened thedoor; and there, crouching down, I found the most beautiful little creatureI had ever seen in my life. It was the child of my neighbour. Yes,Monsieur! you divine, you divine! That was the Leonora!'

'And she is not your compatriot,' I asked.

'A Hungarian? ah, no! yet every piece of her pure Slav. But I weary you,Monsieur; I make a long story.'

I protested my interest; and after a little side glance of dubiousscrutiny, he continued in a constrained monotone, as one who told over tohimself some rosary of sad enchanting memories.

'Ah, yes! she was beautiful; that mysterious, sad Slavonic beauty! a thingquite special and apart. And, as a child, it was more tragical and strange;that dusky hair! those profound and luminous eyes! seeming to mourn overtragedies they have never known. A strange, wild, silent child! She mighthave been eight or nine, then; but her little soul was hungry for music. Itwas a veritable passion; and when she became at last my good friend, shetold me how often she had lain for long hours outside my door, listening tomy violin. I gave her a kind of scolding, such as one could to so beautifula little creature, for the passage was draughty and cold, and sent her awaywith some _bon-bons_. She shook back her long, dark hair: 'You are notangry, and I am not naughty,' she said: 'and I shall come back. I thank youfor your _bon-bons_; but I like your music better than _bon-bons_, or fairytales, or anything in the world.'

'But she never came back to the passage again, Monsieur! The next time Icame across the Count, I sent her an invitation, a little diffidently, forhe had never spoken to me of her, and he was a strange and difficult man.Now, he simply shrugged his shoulders, with a smile, in which, for once,there seemed more entertainment than malice. The child could visit me whenshe chose; if it amused either of us, so much the better. And we werecontent, and she came to me often; after a while, indeed, she was withme almost always. Child as she was, she had already the promise of hermagnificent voice; and I taught her to use it, to sing, and to play on thepiano and on the violin, to which she took the most readily. She was like asinging bird in the room, such pure, clear notes! And she grew very fond ofme; she would fall asleep at last in my arms, and so stay until the Countwould take her with him when he entered, long after midnight. He came tome naturally for her soon; and they never seemed long those hours that Iwatched over her sleep. I never knew him harsh or unkind to the child; heseemed simply indifferent to her as to everything else. He had exhaustedlife and he hated it; and he knew that death was on him, and he hatedthat even more. And yet he was careful of her after a fashion, buying her_bon-bons_ and little costumes, when he was in the vein, pitching his voicesoftly when he would stay and talk to me, as though he relished her sleep.One night he did not come to fetch her at all, I had wrapped a blanketround the child where she lay on my bed, and had sat down to watch by herand presently I too fell asleep. I do not know how long I slept but when Iwoke there was a gray light in the room, I was very cold and stiff, but Icould hear close by, the soft, regular breathing of the child. There was agreat uneasiness on me, and after a while I stole out across the passageand knocked at the Count's door, there was no answer but it gave when Itried it, and so I went in. The lamp had smouldered out, there was a sickodour of _petrol_ everywhere, and the shutters were closed: but through thechinks the merciless gray dawn streamed in and showed me the Count sittingvery still by the table. His face wore a most curious smile, and had nothis great cavernous eyes been open, I should have believed him asleep:suddenly it came to me that he was dead. He was not a good man, monsieur,nor an amiable, but a true _virtuoso_ and full of information, and Igrieved. I have had Masses said for the repose of his soul.'

He paid a tribute of silence to the dead man's memory, and then he went on.

'It seemed quite natural that I should take his child. There was no one tocare, no one to object; it happened quite easily. We went, the little oneand I, to another part of the city. We made quite a new life. Oh! my God!it is a very long time ago.'

Quite suddenly his voice went tremulous; but after a pause, hardlyperceptible, he recovered himself and continued with an accent of apology.

'I am a foolish old man, and very garrulous. It is not good to think ofthat, nor to talk of it; I do not know why I do. But what would you have?She loved me then, and she had the voice and the disposition of an angel.I have never been very happy. I think sometimes, monsieur, that we others,who care much for art, are not permitted that. But certainly those few,rapid days, when she was a child, were good; and yet they were the daysof my defeat. I found myself out then. I was never to be a great artist,a _maestro_: a second-rate man, a good music-teacher for young ladies,a capable performer in an orchestra, what you will, but a great artist,never! Yet in those days, even when my opera failed, I had consolation,I could say, I have a child! I would have kept her with me always but itcould not be, from the very first she would be a singer. I knew alwaysthat a day would come when she would not need me, she was meant to be theworld's delight, and I had no right to keep her, even if I could. I held mybeautiful, strange bird in her cage, until she beat her wings against thebars, then I opened the door. At the last, I think, that is all we can dofor our children, our best beloved, our very heart-strings, stand free ofthem, let them go. The world is very weary, but we must all find that outfor ourselves, perhaps when they are tired they will come home, perhapsnot, perhaps not. It was to the Conservatoire, at Milan, that I sent herfinally, and it was at La Scala that she afterwards appeared, and at LaScala too, poor child, she met her evil genius, the man named Romanoff, abaritone in her company, own son of the devil, whom she married. Ah, if Icould have prevented it, if I could have prevented it!'

He lapsed into a long silence; a great weariness seemed to have come overhim, and in the gray light which filtered in through the dingy windowblinds, his face was pinched and wasted, unutterably old and forlorn.

'But I did not prevent it,' he said at last, 'for all my good will,perhaps merely hastened it by unseasonable interference. And so we wentin different ways, with anger I fear, and at least with sore hearts andmisunderstanding.'

He spoke with an accent of finality, and so sadly that in a sudden rush ofpity I was moved to protest.

'But, surely you meet sometimes; surely this woman, who was as your ownchild--'

He stopped me with a solemn, appealing gesture.

'You are young, and you do not altogether understand. You must not judgeher; you must not believe, that she forgets, that she does not care. Only,it is better like this, because it could never be as before. I could nothelp her. I want nothing that she can give me, no not anything; I have mymemories! I hear of her, from time to time; I hear what the world says ofher, the imbecile world, and I smile. Do I not know best? I, who carriedher in my arms, when she was that high!'

And in effect the old violinist smiled, it was as though he had surprisedmy secret of dissatisfaction, and found it, like the malice of the world,too ignorant to resent. The edge of his old, passionate adoration hadremained bright and keen through the years; and it imparted a strangebrilliancy to his eyes, which half convinced me, as presently, with aresumption of his usual air of diffident courtesy, he ushered me out intothe vague, spring dawn. And yet, when I had parted from him and was makingmy way somewhat wearily to my own quarters, my first dubious impressionremained. My imagination was busy with the story I had heard, strivingquite vainly to supply omissions, to fill in meagre outlines. Yes! quitevainly! the figure of the Romanoff was left, ambiguous and unexplained;hardly acquitted in my mind of a certain callousness, an ingratitude almostvulgar as it started out from time to time, in contraposition against thatforlorn old age.

III

I saw him once more at the little restaurant in Soho, before a suddenchange of fortune, calling me abroad for an absence, as it happened, ofyears, closed the habit of our society. He gave me the god-speed of abrother artist, though mine was not the way of music, with many prophesiesof my success; and the pressure of his hand, as he took leave of me, wastremulous.

'I am an old man, monsieur, and we may not meet again, in this world. Iwish you all the chances you deserve in Paris; but I--I shall greatly missyou. If you come back in time, you will find me in the old places; and ifnot--there are things of mine, which I should wish you to have, that shallbe sent you.'

And indeed it proved to be our last meeting. I went to Paris; a fitfulcorrespondence intervened, grew infrequent, ceased; then a little later,came to me the notification, very brief and official, of his death in theFrench Hospital of pneumonia. It was followed by a few remembrances of him,sent at his request, I learnt, by the priest who had administered to himthe last offices: some books that he had greatly cherished, works of Glueck,for the most part; an antique ivory crucifix of very curious workmanship;and his violin, a beautiful instrument dated 1670 and made at Nuremberg,yet with a tone which seemed to me, at least, as fine as that of theCremonas. It had an intrinsic value to me, apart from its associations;for I too was something of an amateur, and since this seasoned melodiouswood had come into my possession, I was inspired to take my facility moreseriously. To play in public, indeed, I had neither leisure nor desire:but in certain _salons_ of my acquaintance, where music was much in vogue,I made from time to time a desultory appearance. I set down these facts,because as it happened, this ineffectual talent of mine, which poorCristich's legacy had recalled to life, was to procure me an interestingencounter. I remember the occasion well, it was too appropriate to beforgotten--as though my old friend's lifeless fiddle, which had yetsurvived so many _maestri_, was to be a direct instrument of the completionof his story, the resurrection of those dormant and unsatisfied curiositieswhich still now and again concerned me. I had played at an house whereI was a stranger; brought there by a friend, to whose insistence I hadyielded somewhat reluctantly; although he had assured me, and, I believe,with reason, that it was a house where the indirect, or Attic invitationgreatly prevailed, in brief, a place where one met very queer people. Thehostess was American, a charming woman, of unimpeachable antecedents; buther passion for society, which, while it should always be interesting, wasnot always equally reputable, had exposed her evenings to the suspicion ofher compatriots. And when I had discharged my part in the programme andhad leisure to look around me, I saw at a glance that their suspicion wasjustified; very queer people indeed were there. The large hot rooms werecosmopolitan: infidels and Jews, everybody and nobody; a scandalouslypromiscuous assemblage! And there, with a half start, which was not atfirst recognition, my eyes stopped before a face which brought to me aconfused rush of memories. It was that of a woman who sat on an ottomanin the smallest room which was almost empty. Her companion was a small,vivacious man with a gray imperial, and the red ribbon in his buttonhole,to whose continuous stream of talk, eked out with meridional gestures,she had the air of being listlessly resigned. Her dress, a marvel ofdiscretion, its colour the yellow of old ivory, was of some very richand stiff stuff cut square to her neck; that, and her great black hair,clustered to a crimson rose at the top of her head, made the pallor of herface a thing to marvel at. Her beauty was at once sombre and illuminating,and youthful no less. The woman of thirty: but her complexion, and herarms, which were bare, were soft in texture as a young girl's.

I made my way as well as I could for the crowd, to my hostess, listened,with what patience I might, to some polite praise of my playing, and mademy request.

'Mrs. Destrier, I have an immense favour to ask; introduce me to MadameRomanoff!'

She gave me a quick, shrewd smile; then I remembered stories of herintimate quaintness.

'My dear young man! I have no objection. Only I warn you, she is notconversational; you will make no good of it, and you will be disappointed;perhaps that will be best. Please remember, I am responsible for nobody.'

'Is she so dangerous?' I asked. 'But never mind; I believe that I havesomething to say which may interest her.'

'Oh, for that!' she smiled elliptically; 'yes, she is most dangerous. But Iwill introduce you; you shall tell me how you succeed.'

I bowed and smiled; she laid a light hand on my arm; and I piloted herto the desired corner. It seemed that the chance was with me. The littlefluent Provencal had just vacated his seat; and when the prima-donna hadacknowledged the hasty mention of my name, with a bare inclination ofher head, I was emboldened to succeed to it. And then I was silent. Inthe perfection of that dolorous face, I could not but be reminded of thetradition which has always ascribed something fatal and inevitable to thepossession of great gifts: of genius or uncommon fortune, or singularpersonal beauty; and the common-place of conversation failed me.

After a while she looked askance at me, with a sudden flash of resentment.

'You speak no French, Monsieur! And yet you write it well enough; I haveread your stories.'

'_A la bonne heure!_ I perceive you also speak it. Is that why you wishedto be presented, to hear my criticisms?'

'Let me answer that question when you have answered mine.'

She glanced curiously over her feathered fan, then with the slightestupward inclination of her statuesque shoulders--'I admire your books; butare your women quite just? I prefer your playing.'

'That is better, Madame! It was to talk of that I came.'

'Your playing?'

'My violin.'

'You want me to look at it? It is a Cremona?'

'It is not a Cremona; but if you like, I will give it you.'

Her dark eyes shone out in amazed amusement.

'You are eccentric, Monsieur! but your nation has a privilege ofeccentricity. At least, you amuse me; and I have wearied myself enough thislong evening. Show me your violin; I am something of a _virtuosa_.'

I took the instrument from its case, handed it to her in silence, watchingher gravely. She received it with the dexterous hands of a musician, lookedat the splendid stains on the back, then bent over towards the light in acurious scrutiny of the little, faded signature of its maker, the _fecit_of an obscure Bavarian of the seventeenth century; and it was a long timebefore she raised her eyes.

When she spoke, her rich voice had a note of imperious entreaty in it.'Your violin interests me, Monsieur! Oh, I know that wood! It came toyou--?'

'A legacy from an esteemed friend.'

She shot back. 'His name?' with the flash which I waited for.

'Maurice Cristich, Madame!'

We were deserted in our corner. The company had strayed in, one by one, tothe large _salon_ with the great piano, where a young Russian musician,a pupil of Chopin, sat down to play, with no conventional essay ofpreliminary chords, an expected morsel. The strains of it wailed in justthen, through the heavy, screening curtains; a mad _valse_ of his own, thatno human feet could dance to, a pitiful, passionate thing that thrilled thenerves painfully, ringing the changes between voluptuous sorrow and themerriment of devils, and burdened always with the weariness of 'all theRussias,' the proper _Welt-schmerz_ of a young, disconsolate people. Itseemed to charge the air, like electricity, with passionate undertones; itgave intimate facilities, and a tense personal note to our interview.

'A legacy! so he is gone.' She swayed to me with a wail in her voice, ina sort of childish abandonment: 'and _you_ tell me! Ah!' she drew back,chilling suddenly with a touch of visible suspicion. 'You hurt me,Monsieur! Is it a stroke at random? You spoke of a gift; you say you knew,esteemed him. You were with him? Perhaps, a message ...?'

'He died alone, Madame! I have no message. If there were none, it might be,perhaps, that he believed you had not cared for it. If that were wrong, Icould tell you that you were not forgotten. Oh! he loved you! I had hisword for it, and the story. The violin is yours--do not mistake me; it isnot for your sake but his. He died alone; value it, as I should, Madame!'

They were insolent words, perhaps cruel, provoked from me by the mixednature of my attraction to her; the need of turning a reasonable and coolfront to that pathetic beauty, that artful music, which whipped jadednerves to mutiny. The arrow in them struck so true, that I was shocked atmy work. It transfixed the child in her, latent in most women, which moanedat my feet; so that for sheer shame as though it were actually a child Ihad hurt, I could have fallen and kissed her hands.

'Oh, you judge me hard, you believe the worst of me and why not? I amagainst the world! At least he might have taught you to be generous, thatkind old man! Have I forgotten do you think! Am I so happy then? Oh it is ajust question, the world busies itself with me, and you are in the lap ofits tongues. Has it ever accused me of that, of happiness? Cruel, cruel!I have paid my penalties, and a woman is not free to do as she will, butwould not I have gone to him, for a word, a sign? Yes, for the sake of mychildhood. And to-night when you showed me that,' her white hand swept overthe violin with something of a caress, 'I thought it had come, yes, fromthe grave, and you make it more bitter by readings of your own. You strikeme hard.'

I bent forward in real humility, her voice had tears in it, though hersplendid eyes were hard.

'Forgive me, Madame! a vulgar stroke at random. I had no right to make it,he told me only good of you. Forgive me, and for proof of your pardon--I amserious now--take his violin.'

Her smile, as she refused me, was full of sad dignity.

'You have made it impossible, Monsieur! It would remind me only now of howill you think of me. I beg you to keep it.'

The music had died away suddenly, and its ceasing had been followed bya loud murmur of applause. The prima-donna rose, and stood for a momentobserving me, irresolutely.

'I leave you and your violin, Monsieur! I have to sing presently, with suchvoice as our talk has left me. I bid you both adieu!'

'Ah, Madame!' I deprecated, 'you will think again of this, I will send ityou in the morning. I have no right....'

She shook her head, then with a sudden flash of amusement, or fantasy--'Iagree, Monsieur! on a condition. To prove your penitence, you shall bringit to me yourself.'

I professed that her favour overpowered me. She named an hour when shewould be at home: an address in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, which Inoted on my tablets.

'Not adieu then, Monsieur! but _au revoir_.'

I bowed perplexedly, holding the curtain aside to let her sweep through;and once more she turned back, gathering up her voluminous train, to repeatwith a glance and accent, which I found mystifying: 'Remember, Monsieur! Itis only _au revoir_.'

That last glimpse of her, with the strange mockery and an almost elfishmalice in her fine eyes, went home with me later to cause vague disquietand fresh suspicion of her truth. The spell of her extraordinary, personalcharm removed, doubt would assert itself. Was she quite sincere? Washer fascination not a questionable one? Might not that almost childishoutburst of a grief so touching, and at the time convincing, be after allfactitious; the movement of a born actress and enchantress of men, quickto seize as by a nice professional instinct the opportunity of an effect?Had her whole attitude been a deliberate pose, a sort of trick? Thesudden changes in her subtile voice, the under current of mockery in aninvitation which seemed inconsequent, put me on my guard, reinforced allmy deep-seated prejudices against the candor of the feminine soul. It leftme with a vision of her, fantastically vivid, raccounting to an intimatecircle, to an accompaniment of some discreet laughter and the popping ofchampagne corks, the success of her imposition, the sentimental concessionswhich she had extorted from a notorious student of cynical moods.

A dangerous woman! cried Mrs. Destrier with the world, which mightconceivably be right; at least I was fain to add, a woman whose laughterwould be merciless. Certainly, I had no temper for adventures; and avisit to Madame Romanoff on so sentimental an errand seemed to me, themore I pondered it, to partake of this quality to be rich in distastefulpossibilities. Must I write myself pusillanimous, if I confess that I nevermade it, that I committed my old friend's violin into the hands of thewoman who had been his pupil by the vulgar aid of a _commissionaire_?

Pusillanimous or simply prudent; or perhaps cruelly unjust, to a person whohad paid penalties and greatly needed kindness? It is a point I have neverbeen able to decide, though I have tried to raise theories on the groundof her acquiescence. It seemed to me on the cards, that my fiddle bestowedso cavalierly, should be refused. And yet even the fact of her retainingit is open to two interpretations, and Cristich testified for her. MauriceCristich! Madame Romanoff! the renowned Romanoff, Maurice Cristich! Have Ibeen pusillanimous, prudent or merely cruel? For the life of me I cannotsay!

SOUVENIRS OF AN EGOIST

Eheu fugaces! How that air carries me back, that air ground away sounmercifully, _sans_ tune, _sans_ time on a hopelessly discordantbarrel-organ, right underneath my window. It is being bitterly execrated, Iknow, by the literary gentleman who lives in chambers above me, and by theconvivial gentleman who has a dinner party underneath. It has certainlymade it impossible for me to continue the passage in my new Fugue in Aminor, which was being transferred so flowingly from my own brain on to thescore when it interrupted me. But for all that, I have a shrewd suspicionthat I shall bear its unmusical torture as long as it lasts, and eventuallysend away the frowsy foreigner, who no doubt is playing it, happy with afairly large coin.

Yes: for the sake of old times, for the old emotion's sake--for Ninette'ssake, I put up with it, not altogether sorry for the recollections it hasaroused.

How vividly it brings it all back! Though I am a rich man now, and socomfortably domiciled; though the fashionable world are so eager to lioniseme, and the musical world look upon me almost as a god, and to-morrowhundreds of people will be turned away, for want of space, from the Hallwhere I am to play, just I alone, my last Fantaisie, it was not so verymany years ago that I trudged along, fiddling for half-pence in thestreets. Ninette and I--Ninette with her barrel-organ, and I fiddling. Poorlittle Ninette--that air was one of the four her organ played. I wonderwhat has become of her? Dead, I should hope, poor child. Now that I amsuccessful and famous, a Baron of the French Empire, it is not altogetherunpleasant to think of the old, penniless, vagrant days, by a blazing firein a thick carpeted room, with the November night shut outside. I am ratheran epicure of my emotions, and my work is none the worse for it.

'Little egoist,' I remember Lady Greville once said of me, 'he has the trueartistic susceptibility. All his sensations are so much grist for his art.'

But it is of Ninette, not Lady Greville, that I think to-night, Ninette'schildish face that the dreary grinding organ brings up before me, not LadyGreville's aquiline nose and delicate artificial complexion.

Although I am such a great man now, I should find it very awkward to beobliged to answer questions as to my parentage and infancy.

Even my nationality I could not state precisely, though I know I am as muchItalian as English, perhaps rather more. From Italy I have inherited mygenius and enthusiasm for art, from England I think I must have got mycommon-sense, and the capacity of keeping the money which I make; also acertain natural coldness of disposition, which those who only know me as apublic character do not dream of. All my earliest memories are very vagueand indistinct. I remember tramping over France and Italy with a man andwoman--they were Italian, I believe--who beat me, and a fiddle, which Iloved passionately, and which I cannot remember having ever been without.They are very shadowy presences now, and the name of the man I haveforgotten. The woman, I think, was called Maddalena. I am ignorant whetherthey were related to me in any way: I know that I hated them bitterly, andeventually, after a worse beating than usual, ran away from them. I nevercared for any one except my fiddle, until I knew Ninette.

I was very hungry and miserable indeed when that rencontre came about. Iwonder sometimes what would have happened if Ninette had not come to therescue, just at that particular juncture. Would some other salvation haveappeared, or would--well, well, if one once begins wondering what wouldhave happened if certain accidents in one's life had not befallen one whenthey did, where will one come to a stop? Anyhow, when I had escaped frommy taskmasters, a wretched, puny child of ten, undersized and shivering,clasping a cheap fiddle in my arms, lost in the huge labyrinth of Paris,without a _sou_ in my rags to save me from starvation, I _did_ meetNinette, and that, after all, is the main point.

It was at the close of my first day of independence, a wretched Novemberevening, very much like this one. I had wandered about all day, but myefforts had not been rewarded by a single coin. My fiddle was old andwarped, and injured by the rain; its whining was even more repugnant to myown sensitive ear, than to that of the casual passer-by. I was in despair.How I hated all the few well-dressed, well-to-do people who were but on theBoulevards, on that inclement night. I wandered up and down hoping againsthope, until I was too tired to stand, and then I crawled under the shelterof a covered passage, and flung myself down on the ground, to die, as Ihoped, crying bitterly.

The alley was dark and narrow, and I did not see at first that it hadanother occupant. Presently a hand was put out and touched me on theshoulder.

I started up in terror, though the touch was soft and need not have alarmedme. I found it came from a little girl, for she was really about my ownage, though then she seemed to me very big and protecting. But she was talland strong for her age, and I, as I have said, was weak and undersized.

'Chut! little boy,' said Ninette; 'what are you crying for?'

And I told her my story, as clearly as I could, through my sobs; and soon apair of small arms were thrown round my neck, and a smooth little face laidagainst my wet one caressingly. I felt as if half my troubles were over.

'Don't cry, little boy,' said Ninette, grandly; 'I will take care of you.If you like, you shall live with me. We will make a _menage_ together. Whatis your profession?'

I showed her my fiddle, and the sight of its condition caused fresh tearsto flow.

'Ah!' she said, with a smile of approval, 'a violinist--good! I too am anartiste. You ask my instrument? There it is!'

And she pointed to an object on the ground beside her, which I had, atfirst, taken to be a big box, and dimly hoped might contain eatables. Myrespect for my new friend suffered a little diminution. Already I feltinstinctively that to play the fiddle, even though it is an old, a poorone, is to be something above a mere organ-grinder.

But I did not express this feeling--was not this little girl going to takeme home with her? would not she, doubtless, give me something to eat?

My first impulse was an artistic one; that was of Italy. The concealment ofit was due to the English side of me--the practical side.

I crept close to the little girl; she drew me to her protectingly.

'What is thy name, _p'tit_?' she said.

'Anton,' I answered, for that was what the woman Maddalena had called me.Her husband, if he was her husband, never gave me any title, except when hewas abusing me, and then my names were many and unmentionable. Nowadays Iam the Baron Antonio Antonelli, of the Legion of Honour, but that is merelyan extension of the old concise Anton, so far as I know, the only name Iever had.'

'Anton?' repeated the little girl, that is a nice name to say. Mine isNinette.'

We sat in silence in our sheltered nook, waiting until the rain shouldstop, and very soon I began to whimper again.

'I am so hungry, Ninette,' I said; 'I have eaten nothing to-day.'

In the literal sense this was a lie; I had eaten some stale crusts in theearly morning, before I gave my taskmasters the slip, but the hunger wastrue enough.

Ninette began to reproach herself for not thinking of this before. Aftermuch fumbling in her pocket, she produced a bit of _brioche_, an apple, andsome cold chestnuts.

'_V'la_, Anton,' she said, 'pop those in your mouth. When we get home wewill have supper together. I have bread and milk at home. And we will buytwo hot potatoes from the man on the _quai_.'

I ate the unsatisfying morsels ravenously, Ninette watching me with anapproving nod the while. When they were finished, the weather was a littlebetter, and Ninette said we might move. She slung the organ over hershoulder--it was a small organ, though heavy for a child; but she was usedto it, and trudged along under its weight like a woman. With her free handshe caught hold of me and led me along the wet streets, proudly home.Ninette's home! Poor little Ninette! It was colder and barer than theserooms of mine now; it had no grand piano, and no thick carpets; and in theplace of pictures and _bibelots_, its walls were only wreathed in cobwebs.Still it was drier than the streets of Paris, and if it had been a palaceit could not have been more welcome to me than it was that night.

The _menage_ of Ninette was a strange one! There was a tumbledown desertedhouse in the Montparnasse district. It stood apart, in an overgrown weedygarden, and has long ago been pulled down. It was uninhabited; no one but aParisian _gamine_ could have lived in it, and Ninette had long occupied it,unmolested, save by the rats. Through the broken palings in the garden shehad no difficulty in passing, and as its back door had fallen to pieces,there was nothing to bar her further entry. In one of the few rooms whichhad its window intact, right at the top of the house, a mere attic, Ninettehad installed herself and her scanty goods, and henceforward this became myhome also.

It has struck me since as strange that the child's presence should not havebeen resented by the owner. But I fancy the house had some story connectedwith it. It was, I believe, the property of an old and infirm miser, whoin his reluctance to part with any of his money in repairs had overreachedhimself, and let his property become valueless. He could not let it,and he would not pull it down. It remained therefore an eyesore tothe neighbourhood, until his death put it in the possession of a lessavaricious successor. The proprietor never came near the place, andwith the neighbours it had a bad repute, and they avoided it as much aspossible. It stood, as I have said, alone, and in its own garden, andNinette's occupation of it may have passed unnoticed, while even if anyone of the poor people living around had known of her, it was, after all,nobody's business to interfere.

When I was last in Paris I went to look for the house, but all traces of ithad vanished, and over the site, so far as I could fix it, a narrow streetof poor houses flourished.

Ninette introduced me to her domain with a proud air of ownership. She hada little store of charcoal, with which she proceeded to light a fire inthe grate, and by its fitful light prepared our common supper--bread andradishes, washed down by a pennyworth of milk, of which, I have no doubt, Ireceived the lion's share. As a dessert we munched, with much relish, thesteaming potatoes that Ninette had bought from a stall in the street, andhad kept warm in the pocket of her apron.

And so, as Ninette said, we made a _menage_ together. How that old organbrings it all back. My fiddle was useless after the hard usage it receivedthat day. Ninette and I went out on our rounds together, but for thepresent I was a sleeping partner in the firm, and all I could do was togrind occasionally when Ninette's arm ached, or pick up the sous that werethrown us. Ninette was, as a rule, fairly successful. Since her mother haddied, a year before, leaving her the organ as her sole legacy, she hadlived mainly by that instrument; although she often increased her incomein the evenings, when organ-grinding was more than ever at a discount, byselling bunches of violets and other flowers as button-holes.

With her organ she had a regular beat, and a distinct _clientele_. Childrenplaying with their _bonnes_ in the gardens of the Tuileries and theLuxembourg were her most productive patrons. Of course we had bad days aswell as good, and in winter it was especially bad; but as a rule we managedfairly to make both ends meet. Sometimes we carried home as much as fivefrancs as the result of the day's campaign, but this, of course, wasunusual.

Ninette was not precisely a pretty child, but she had a very bright face,and wonderful gray eyes. When she smiled, which was often, her face wasvery attractive, and a good many people were induced to throw a sou for thesmile which they would have assuredly grudged to the music.

Though we were about the same age, the position which it might have beenexpected we should occupy was reversed. It was Ninette who petted andprotected me--I who clung to her.

I was very fond of Ninette, certainly. I should have died in those days ifit had not been for her, and sometimes I am surprised at the tenacity of mytenderness for her. As much as I ever cared for anything except my art,I cared for Ninette. But still she was never the first with me, as I musthave been with her. I was often fretful and discontented, sometimes, Ifear, ready to reproach her for not taking more pains to alleviate ourmisery, but all the time of our partnership Ninette never gave me a crossword. There was something maternal about her affection, which withstood allungratefulness. She was always ready to console me when I was miserable,and throw her arms round me and kiss me when I was cold; and many a time, Iam sure, when the day's earnings had been scanty, the little girl must havegone to sleep hungry, that I might not be stinted in my supper.

One of my grievances, and that the sorest of all, was the loss of mybeloved fiddle. This, for all her goodwill, Ninette was powerless to allay.

'Dear Anton,' she said, 'do not mind about it. I earn enough for both withmy organ, and some day we shall save enough to buy thee a new fiddle. Whenwe are together, and have got food and charcoal, what does it matter aboutan old fiddle? Come, eat thy supper, Anton, and I will light the fire.Never mind, dear Anton.' And she laid her soft little cheek against minewith a pleading look.

'Don't,' I cried, pushing her away, 'you can't understand, Ninette; youcan only grind an organ--just four tunes, always the same. But I loved myfiddle, loved it! loved it!' I cried passionately. 'It could talk to me,Ninette, and tell me beautiful, new things, always beautiful, and alwaysnew. Oh, Ninette, I shall die if I cannot play!'

It was always the same cry, and Ninette, if she could not understand, andwas secretly a little jealous, was as distressed as I was; but what couldshe do?

Eventually, I got my violin, and it was Ninette who gave it me. The mannerof its acquirement was in this wise.

Ninette would sometimes invest some of her savings in violets, which shedivided with me, and made into nosegays for us to sell in the streets atnight.

Theatre doors and frequented placed on the Boulevards were our favoritespots.

One night we had taken up our station outside the Opera, when a gentlemanstopped on his way in, and asked Ninette for a button-hole. He was inevening dress and in a great hurry.

'How much?' he asked shortly.

'Ten _sous_, M'sieu,' said exorbitant little Ninette, expecting to get twoat the most.

The gentleman drew out some coins hastily and selected a bunch from thebasket.

'Here is a franc,' he said, 'I cannot wait for change,' and putting a coininto Ninette's hand he turned into the theatre.

Ninette ran towards me with her eyes gleaming; she held up the piece ofmoney exultantly.

'Tiens, Anton!' she cried, and I saw that it was not a franc, as we hadthough at first, but a gold Napoleon.

I believe the good little boy and girl in the story-books would haveimmediately sought out the unfortunate gentleman and bid him rectify hismistake, generally receiving, so the legend runs, a far larger bonusas a reward of their integrity. I have never been a particularly goodlittle boy, however, and I don't think it ever struck either Ninette ormyself--perhaps we were not sufficiently speculative--that any other coursewas open to us than to profit by the mistake. Ninette began to consider howwe were to spend it.

'Think of it, Anton, a whole gold _louis_. A _louis_,' said Ninette,counting laboriously, 'is twenty francs, a franc is twenty sous, Anton; howmany sous are there in a louis? More than an hundred?'

But this piece of arithmetic was beyond me; I shook my head dubiously.

'What shall we buy first, Anton?' said Ninette, with sparkling eyes. 'Youshall have new things, Anton, a pair of new shoes and an hat; and I--'

But I had other things than clothes in my mind's eye; I interrupted her.

'Ninette, dear little Ninette,' I said coaxingly, 'remember the fiddle.'

Ninette's face fell, but she was a tender little thing, and she showed nohesitation.

'Certainly, Anton,' she said, but with less enthusiasm, 'we will get itto-morrow--one of the fiddles you showed me in M. Boudinot's shop on theQuai. Do you think the ten-franc one will do, or the light one for fifteenfrancs?'

'Oh, the light one, dear Ninette,' I said; 'it is worth more than the extramoney. Besides, we shall soon earn it back now. Why if you could earnsuch a lot as you have with your old organ, when you only have to turnan handle, think what a lot I shall make, fiddling. For you have to besomething to play the fiddle, Ninette.'

'Yes,' said the little girl, wincing; 'you are right, dear Anton. Perhapsyou will get rich and go away and leave me?'

'No, Ninette,' I declared grandly, 'I will always take care of you. I haveno doubt I shall get rich, because I am going to be a great musician, butI shall not leave you. I will have a big house on the Champs Elysees, andthen you shall come and live with me, and be my housekeeper. And in theevenings, I will play to you and make you open your eyes, Ninette. You willlike me to play, you know; we are often dull in the evenings.'

Poor vanished Ninette! I must often have made the little heart sore withsome of the careless things I said. Yet looking back at it now, I know thatI never cared for any living person so much as I did for Ninette.

I have very few illusions left now; a childhood, such as mine, does nottend to preserve them, and time and success have not made me less cynical.Still I have never let my scepticism touch that childish presence. LadyGreville once said to me, in the presence of her nephew Felix Leominster,a musician too, like myself, that we three were curiously suited, for thatwe were, without exception, the three most cynical persons in the universe,Perhaps in a way she was right. Yet for all her cynicism Lady Greville Iknow has a bundle of old and faded letters, tied up in black ribbon in somehidden drawer, that perhaps she never reads now, but that she cannot forgetor destroy. They are in a bold handwriting, that is, not, I think, that ofthe miserable, old debauchee, her husband, from whom she has been separatedsince the first year of her marriage, and their envelopes bear Indianpostmarks.

And Felix, who told me the history of those letters with a smile of pityon his thin, ironical lips--Felix, whose principles are adapted to hisconscience and whose conscience is bounded by the law, and in whom Ibelieve as little as he does in me, I found out by accident not so verylong ago. It was on the day of All Souls, the melancholy festival ofsouvenirs, celebrated once a year, under the November fogs, that I strayedinto the Montparnasse Cemetery, to seek inspiration for my art. And thoughhe did not see me, I saw Felix, the prince of railers, who believes innothing and cares for nothing except himself, for music is not with him apassion but an _agrement_. Felix bareheaded, and without his usual smile,putting fresh flowers on the grave of a little Parisian grisette, who hadbeen his mistress and died five years ago. I thought of Balzac's 'Messe del'Athee' and ranked Felix's inconsistency with it, feeling at the same timehow natural such a paradox is. And myself, the last of the trio, at themercy of a street organ, I cannot forget Ninette.

Though it was not until many years had passed that I heard that littlecriticism, the purchase of my fiddle was destined very shortly to bringmy life in contact with its author. Those were the days when a certainrestraint grew up between Ninette and myself. Ninette, it must beconfessed, was jealous of the fiddle. Perhaps she knew instinctively thatmusic was with me a single and absorbing passion, from which she wasexcluded. She was no genius, little Ninette, and her organ was nothing moreto her than the means of making a livelihood; she felt not the smallest_tendresse_ for it, and could not understand why a dead and inanimatefiddle, made of mere wood and catgut, should be any more to me than that.How could she know that to me it was never a dead thing, that even when ithung hopelessly out of my reach, in the window of M. Boudinot, before everit had given out wild, impassioned music beneath my hands, it was always alive thing to me, alive and with a human, throbbing heart, vibrating withhope and passion.

So Ninette was jealous of the fiddle, and being proud in her way, shebecame more and more quiet and reticent, and drew herself aloof from me,although, wrapped up as I was in the double egoism of art and boyhood,I failed to notice this. I have been sorry since that any shadow ofmisunderstanding should have clouded the closing days of our partnership.It is late to regret now, however. When my fiddle was added to ourbelongings, we took to going out separately. It was more profitable, and,besides, Ninette, I think, saw that I was growing a little ashamed ofher organ. On one of these occasions, as I played before a house in theFaubourg St. Germain, the turning point of my life befell me. The house,outside which I had taken my station was a large, white one, with a balconyon the first floor. This balcony was unoccupied, but the window looking toit was open, and through the lace curtains I could distinguish the soundof voices. I began to play; at first, one of the airs that Maddalena hadtaught me; but before it was finished, I had glided off, as usual, into animprovisation.

When I was playing like that, I threw all my soul into my fingers, and Ihad neither ears nor eyes for anything round me. I did not therefore noticeuntil I had finished playing that a lady and a young man had come out intothe balcony, and were beckoning to me.

'Bravo!' cried the lady enthusiastically, but she did not throw me thereward I had expected. She turned and said something to her companion, whosmiled and disappeared. I waited expectantly, thinking perhaps she had senthim for her purse. Presently the door opened, and the young man issued fromit. He came to me and touched me on the shoulder.

'You are to come with me,' he said, authoritatively, speaking in French,but with an English accent. I followed him, my heart beating withexcitement, through the big door, into a large, handsome hall and up abroad staircase, thinking that in all my life I had never seen such abeautiful house.

He led me into a large and luxurious _salon_, which seemed to my astonishedeyes like a wonderful museum. The walls were crowded with pictures, acharming composition by Gustave Moreau was lying on the grand piano,waiting until a nook could be found for it to hang. Renaissance bronzesand the work of eighteenth century silversmiths jostled one another onbrackets, and on a table lay a handsome violin-case. The pale blinds weredrawn down, and there was a delicious smell of flowers diffused everywhere.A lady was lying on a sofa near the window, a handsome woman of aboutthirty, whose dress was a miracle of lace and flimsiness.

The young man led me towards her, and she placed two delicate, jewelledhands on my shoulders, looking me steadily in the face.

'Where did you learn to play like that, my boy?' she asked.

'I cannot remember when I could not fiddle, Madame,' I answered, and thatwas true.

'The boy is a born musician, Felix,' said Lady Greville. 'Look at hishands.'

And she held up mine to the young man's notice; he glanced at themcarelessly.

'Yes, Miladi,' said the young man, 'they are real violin hands. What wereyou playing just now, my lad?'

'I don't know, sir,' I said. 'I play just what comes into my head.'

Lady Greville looked at her nephew with a glance of triumph.

'What did I tell you?' she cried. 'The boy is a genius, Felix. I shall havehim educated.'

'All your geese are swans, Auntie,' said the young man in English.

Lady Greville, however, ignored this thrust.

'Will you play for me now, my dear,' she said, 'as you did before--justwhat comes into your head?'

I nodded, and was getting my fiddle to my chin, when she stopped me.

'Not that thing,' bestowing a glance of contempt at my instrument. 'Felix,the Stradivarius.'

The young man went to the other side of the room, and returned with thecase which I had noticed. He put it in my hand, with the injunction tohandle it gently. I had never heard of Cremona violins, nor of my namesakeStradivarius; but at the sight of the dark seasoned wood, reposing on itsblue velvet, I could not restrain a cry of admiration.

I have that same instrument in my room now, and I would not trust it in thehands of another for a million.

I lifted the violin tenderly from its case, and ran my bow up the gamut.

I felt almost intoxicated at the mellow sounds it uttered. I could havekissed the dark wood, that looked to me stained through and through withmelody.

I began to play. My improvisation was a song of triumph and delight; themusic, at first rapid and joyous, became slower and more solemn, as theinspiration seized on me, until at last, in spite of myself, it grew intoa wild and indescribable dirge, fading away in a long wail of unutterablesadness and regret. When it was over I felt exhausted and unstrung, asthough virtue had gone out from me. I had played as I had never playedbefore. The young man had turned away, and was looking out of the window.The lady on the sofa was transfigured. The languor had altogether left her,and the tears were streaming down her face, to the great detriment of thepowder and enamel which composed her complexion.

She pulled me towards her, and kissed me.

'It is beautiful, terrible!' she said; 'I have never heard such strangemusic in my life. You must stay with me now and have masters. If you canplay like that now, without culture and education, in time, when you havebeen taught, you will be the greatest violinist that ever lived.'

I will say of Lady Greville that, in spite of her frivolity andaffectations, she does love music at the bottom of her soul, with theabsorbing passion that in my eyes would absolve a person for committing allthe sins in the Decalogue. If her heart could be taken out and examinedI can fancy it as a shield, divided into equal fields. Perhaps, as herfriends declare, one of these might bear the device 'Modes et Confections';but I am sure that you would see on the other, even more deeply graven, thedivine word 'Music.'

She is one of the few persons whose praise of any of my compositions givesme real satisfaction; and almost alone, when everybody is running, in truegoose fashion, to hear my piano recitals, she knows and tells me to stickto my true vocation--the violin.

'My dear Baron,' she said, 'why waste your time playing on an instrumentwhich is not suited to you, when you have Stradivarius waiting at home forthe magic touch?'

She was right, though it is the fashion to speak of me now as a secondRubenstein. There are two or three finer pianists than I, even herein England. But I am quite sure, yes, and you are sure, too, oh myStradivarius, that in the whole world there is nobody who can make suchmusic out of you as I can, no one to whom you tell such stories as you tellto me. Any one, who knows, could see by merely looking at my hands thatthey are violin and not piano hands.

'Will you come and live with me, Anton?' said Lady Greville, more calmly.'I am rich, and childless; you shall live just as if you were my child. Thebest masters in Europe shall teach you. Tell me where to find your parents,Anton, and I will see them to-night.'

'I have no parents,' I said, 'only Ninette. I cannot leave Ninette.'

'Shade of Musset, who is Ninette?' asked Felix, turning round from thewindow.

I told him.

'What is to be done?' cried Lady Greville in perplexity. 'I cannot have thegirl here as well, and I will not let my Phoenix go.'

'Send her to the Soeurs de la Misericorde,' said the young man carelessly;'you have a nomination.'

'Have I?' said Lady Greville, with a laugh. 'I am sure I did not know it.It is an excellent idea; but do you think he will come without the other? Isuppose they were like brother and sister?'

'Look at him now,' said Felix, pointing to where I stood caressing theprecious wood; 'he would sell his soul for that fiddle.'

Lady Greville took the hint. 'Here, Anton,' said she, 'I cannot haveNinette here--you understand, once and for all. But I will see that sheis sent to a kind home, where she will want for nothing and be trained upas a servant. You need not bother about her. You will live with me and betaught, and some day, if you are good and behave, you shall go and seeNinette.'

I was irresolute, but I only said doggedly, feeling what would be the end,'I do not want to come, if Ninette may not.'

Then Lady Greville played her trump card.

'Look, Anton,' she said, 'you see that violin. I have no need, I see, totell you its value. If you will come with me and make no scene, you shallhave it for your very own. Ninette will be perfectly happy. Do you agree?'

I looked at my old fiddle, lying on the floor. How yellow and trashy itlooked beside the grand old Cremona, bedded in its blue velvet.

'I will do what you like, Madame,' I said.

'Human nature is pretty much the same in geniuses and dullards,' saidFelix. 'I congratulate you, Auntie.'

And so the bargain was struck, and the new life entered upon that veryday. Lady Greville sought out Ninette at once, though I was not allowed toaccompany her.

I never saw Ninette again. She made no opposition to Lady Greville'sscheme. She let herself be taken to the Orphanage, and she never asked, sothey said, to see me again.

'She's a stupid little thing,' said Lady Greville to her nephew, on herreturn, 'and as plain as possible; but I suppose she was kind to the boy.They will forget each other now I hope. It is not as if they were related.'

'In that case they would already be hating each other. However, I am quitesure your protege will forget soon enough; and, after all, you have nothingto do with the girl.'

I suppose I did not think very much of Ninette then; but what would youhave? It was such a change from the old vagrant days, that there is a gooddeal to excuse me. I was absorbed too in the new and wonderful symmetrywhich music began to assume, as taught me by the master Lady Grevilleprocured for me. When the news was broken to me, with great gentleness,that my little companion had run away from the sisters with whom she hadbeen placed--run away, and left no traces behind her, I hardly realisedhow completely she would have passed away from me. I thought of her for alittle while with some regret; then I remembered Stradivarius, and I couldnot be sorry long. So by degrees I ceased to think of her.

I lived on in Lady Greville's house, going with her, wherever shestayed--London, Paris, and Nice--until I was thirteen. Then she sent meaway to study music at a small German capital, in the house of one of thefew surviving pupils of Weber. We parted as we had lived together, withoutaffection.

Personally Lady Greville did not like me; if anything, she felt an actualrepugnance towards me. All the care she lavished on me was for thesake of my talent, not for myself. She took a great deal of trouble insuperintending, not only my musical education, but my general culture. Shedesigned little mediaeval costumes for me, and was indefatigable in herendeavours to impart to my manners that finish which a gutter education haddenied me.

There is a charming portrait of me, by a well-known English artist, thathangs now in her ladyship's drawing-room. A pale boy of twelve, clad in anold-fashioned suit of ruby velvet; a boy with huge, black eyes, and longcurls of the same colour, is standing by an oak music-stand, holding beforehim a Cremona violin, whose rich colouring is relieved admirably by thebeautiful old point lace with which the boy's doublet is slashed. It is acharming picture. The famous artist who painted it considers it his bestportrait, and Lady Greville is proud of it.

But her pride is of the same quality as that which made her value mypresence. I was in her eyes merely the complement of her famous fiddle.

I heard her one day express a certain feeling of relief at my approachingdeparture.

'You regret having taken him up?' asked her nephew curiously.

'No,' she said, 'that would be folly. He repays all one's trouble, as soonas he touches his fiddle--but I don't like him.'

'He can play like the great Pan,' says Felix.

'Yes, and like Pan he is half a beast.'

'You may make a musician out of him,' answered the young man, examininghis pink nails with a certain admiration, 'but you will never make him agentleman.'

_Dame!_ I think he would own himself mistaken now. Mr. Felix Leominsterhimself is not a greater social success than the Baron Antonio Antonelli,of the Legion of Honour. I am as sensitive as any one to the smallest spoton my linen, and Duchesses rave about my charming manners.

For the rest my souvenirs are not very numerous. I lived in Germany until Imade my _debut_, and I never heard anything more of Ninette.

The history of my life is very much the history of my art: and that youknow. I have always been an art-concentrated man--self-concentrated, myfriend Felix Leominster tells me frankly--and since I was a boy nothing hasever troubled the serene repose of my egoism.

It is strange considering the way people rant about the 'passionatesympathy' of my playing, the 'enormous potentiality of suffering' revealedin my music, how singularly free from passion and disturbance my life hasbeen.

I have never let myself be troubled by what is commonly called 'love.'To be frank with you, I do not much believe in it. Of the two principalelements of which it is composed, vanity and egoism, I have too littleof the former, too much of the latter, too much coldness withal in mycharacter to suffer from it. My life has been notoriously irreproachable.I figure in polemical literature as an instance of a man who has lived incontact with the demoralising influence of the stage, and will yet go toHeaven. _A la bonne heure!_

I am coming to the end of my souvenirs and of my cigar at the same time. Imust convey a coin somehow to that dreary person outside, who is grindingnow half-way down the street.

On consideration, I decide emphatically against opening the window andpresenting it that way. If the fog once gets in, it will utterly spoil mefor any work this evening. I feel myself in travail also of two charminglittle _Lieder_ that all this thinking about Ninette has suggested. Howwould 'Chansons de Gamine' do for a title? I think it best, on secondthoughts, to ring for Giacomo, my man, and send him out with the half-crownI propose to sacrifice on the altar of sentiment. Doubtless the musician isa country-woman of his, and if he pockets the coin, that is his look out.

Now if I was writing a romance, what a chance I have got. I should tell youhow my organ-grinder turned out to be no other than Ninette. Of course shewould not be spoilt or changed by the years--just the same Ninette. Thenwhat scope for a pathetic scene of reconciliation and forgiveness--thewhole to conclude with a peal of marriage bells, two people living together'happy ever after.' But I am not writing a romance, and I am a musician,not a poet.

Sometimes, however, it strikes me that I should like to see Ninette again,and I find myself seeking traces of her in childish faces in the street.

The absurdity of such an expectation strikes me very forcibly afterwards,when I look at my reflection in the glass, and tell myself that I must becareful in the disposition of my parting.

Ninette, too, was my contemporary. Still I cannot conceive of her as awoman. To me she is always a child. Ninette grown up, with a draggled dressand squalling babies, is an incongruous thing that shocks my sense ofartistic fitness. My fiddle is my only mistress, and while I can summon itsconsolation at command, I may not be troubled by the pettiness of a merelyhuman love. But once when I was down with Roman fever, and tossed on ahotel bed, all the long, hot night, while Giacomo drowsed in a corner over'Il Diavolo Rosa,' I seemed to miss Ninette.

Remembering that time, I sometimes fancy that when the inevitable hourstrikes, and this hand is too weak to raise the soul of melody out ofStradivarius--when, my brief dream of life and music over, I go down intothe dark land, where there is no more music, and no Ninette, into the sleepfrom which there comes no awaking, I should like to see her again, not thewoman but the child. I should like to look into the wonderful eyes of theold Ninette, to feel the soft cheek laid against mine, to hold the littlebrown hands, as in the old _gamin_ days.

It is a foolish thought, because I am not forty yet, and with the moderatelife I lead I may live to play Stradivarius for another thirty years.

There is always the hope, too, that it, when it comes, may seize mesuddenly. To see it coming, that is the horrible part. I should like to bestruck by lightning, with you in my arms, Stradivarius, oh, my beloved--todie playing.

The literary gentleman over my head is stamping viciously about hisroom. What would his language be if he knew how I have rewarded histormentress--he whose principles are so strict that he would bear theagony for hours, sooner than give a barrel-organ sixpence to go to anotherstreet. He would be capable of giving Giacomo a sovereign to pocket mycoin, if he only knew. Yet I owe that unmusical old organ a charmingevening, tinged with the faint _soupcon_ of melancholy which is necessaryto and enhances the highest pleasure. Over the memories it has excited Ihave smoked a pleasant cigar--peace to its ashes!

THE STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS

During five years of an almost daily association with Michael Garth, in asolitude of Chili, which threw us, men of common speech, though scarcely ofcommon interests, largely on each other's tolerance, I had grown, if notinto an intimacy with him, at least into a certain familiarity, throughwhich the salient feature of his history, his character reached me. Itwas a singular character, and an history rich in instruction. So much Igathered from hints, which he let drop long before I had heard the endof it. Unsympathetic as the man was to me, it was impossible not to beinterested by it. As our acquaintance advanced, it took (his character Imean) more and more the aspect of a difficult problem in psychology, thatI was passionately interested in solving: to study it was my recreation,after watching the fluctuating course of nitrates. So that when I hadachieved fortune, and might have started home immediately, my interestinduced me to wait more than three months, and return in the same ship withhim. It was through this delay that I am enabled to transcribe the issue ofmy impressions: I found them edifying, if only for their singular irony.

From his own mouth indeed I gleaned but little; although during ourvoyage home, in those long nights when we paced the deck together underthe Southern Cross, his reticence occasionally gave way, and I obtainedglimpses of a more intimate knowledge of him than the whole of ourjuxtaposition on the station had ever afforded me. I guessed more, however,than he told me; and what was lacking I pieced together later, from thetalk of the girl to whom I broke the news of his death. He named her tome, for the first time, a day or two before that happened: a piece ofconfidence so unprecedented, that I must have been blind, indeed, notto have foreseen what it prefaced. I had seen her face the first time Ientered his house, where her photograph hung on a conspicuous wall: thecharming, oval face of a young girl, little more than a child, with greateyes, that one guessed, one knew not why, to be the colour of violets,looking out with singular wistfulness from a waving cloud of dark hair.Afterwards, he told me that it was the picture of his _fiancee_: but,before that, signs had not been wanting by which I had read a woman in his